


Genesis

by canisspiritus (renardroi)



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-17
Updated: 2014-11-17
Packaged: 2018-02-25 18:17:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,269
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2631533
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/renardroi/pseuds/canisspiritus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Alternatively: Dust</p><p>“How much longer?” Xephos asks. He knows Strife keeps track, numbers in his head that he’s calculated based on tests and data readouts. </p><p>“Couple years,” He doesn’t bother to elaborate, even though he has the date down to a few month time span. That’s kind of how it works with Xephos and him. Xeph doesn’t ask for details and Strife doesn’t have to give them. He lifts his hand from the cup to rub his eyes, and then down again to lift the cup to his mouth. He doesn’t drink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Genesis

Xephos sighs lightly as he sets the tea on the table between them. Strife tumbles tiredly out of his reverie, bracing himself on the small two person table as the steam from the tea warms his face. Xephos sits across from him, already sipping his own drink before it’s cooled. Strife sighs in return, frowning and sliding his index finger against the curve of the cup handle.

“How much longer?” Xephos asks. He knows Strife keeps track, numbers in his head that he’s calculated based on tests and data readouts.

“Couple years,” He doesn’t bother to elaborate, even though he has the date down to a few month time span. That’s kind of how it works with Xephos and him. Xeph doesn’t ask for details and Strife doesn’t have to give them. He lifts his hand from the cup to rub his eyes, and then down again to lift the cup to his mouth. He doesn’t drink.

“You could always be wrong.” Xephos says this every time, an attempt at reassurance, yet hardly reassuring. Part of a good hypothesis meant being able to use it to make accurate predictions, and so far things were going exactly as his models had said they would. Strife finally takes a drink from the tea, scalding his throat. Reassurance isn’t his forte, giving or receiving, though he knows Xephos needs it.

And probably, Will thinks a little guiltily, Parvis as well.

“Thanks for the tea,” Strife says finally, his cup still almost full.

“Any time.” Xephos’ eyes are soft, pitying. He looks thoughtful. Strife keeps his gaze on other things, his hands, his watch, his PDA, as he leaves.

“I’ll pay you back,” He says in the door way.

“No need.”

* * *

Strife taps at the keys impatiently, reworking the coding as quietly as he can. It’s a little past three in the morning and he’d rather not wake Parvis as he adds the voice activated and interactive interfacing to the computer. It’s taken at least a month of his time to get this coded and working properly. He rubs his cheek with the back of his hand, yawns, curses under his breath. He’s only been awake for 30 or so hours.

He shouldn’t be this tired.

Parvis still thinks he’s just turning into a normal person, sleeping more “regularly”. Strife supposes, all things considered, Parv likes that he's going to bed with him too much to find any fault in it. He’s content with Will in his bed when he manages it, discontent with Strife’s distance. He doesn’t understand that this is all Will can manage.

He finishes transposing the edited code into the system, the keys louder under his touch as fatigue weighs his hands down. At 3:14 the computer begins to install the long lines of code. At 3:16 Strife realizes he’s not up to watching the computer do its job for the next few hour - or hours. At 3:17 he’s falling into bed, warm and tired, having barely managed to get his pants off and his shirt undone before Parvis makes a small, inviting sound, eyes half-lidded and sleepy.

“You done?” Parvis asks, curling around him.

“Yeah,” Will replies, as the clock blinks and reads 3:19 AM.

* * *

His hands shake, in awe, in fear, as he reaches out to his flowers, his beautiful sunflowers. He doesn’t touch them, though, at the last second pulling back and rubbing the flat of his palm against his forehead. The greenhouse he’s built for the cold weather is doing more than just staving off the winter wind, it’s almost hot.

Strife stands, crestfallen, shoulders suddenly heavy, before the tall stalks of faded grey green and washed out pink petals that hang at chin height.

He puts his hands in his pockets, turns and leaves. He doesn’t return to his greenhouse, doesn’t tend to his garden. They’re left alone with what they have. Parvis goes there when he thinks Strife isn’t paying attention, stares hard at what’s been left behind, cares for the flowers for a small time, trying to find whatever it was that had made Strife turn and leave. They never give up their secrets, and eventually he stops going as well.

By now, Will realizes that Parvis has pretty much moved in with him; sleeping in his bed, wearing his clothes occasionally, coexisting. Strife convinces himself that it’s less than what it is, that the months ticking by while Parvis stays adamantly by his side aren’t really very real. Parv still has his own place, he’s just here for a short while.

Will’s chest hurts, Parvis lives his life around him. And while the physical, measurable distance between them decreases, it still feels like they’re growing apart.

It’s probably for the best.

“Tea?”

“Sure,” he breathes.

* * *

The coughing is a thing. A thing that wakes him up at night, steals his breath while he’s sleeping comfortably – 7 hours every night now – and pulls him harshly into wakefulness. There’s the sensation of falling, a sudden lack of air in the room, and he braces himself upright in bed as coughs rack his body. Parv rubs his back comfortingly. Strife tries to muffle it, hand drawn over his mouth. Parv’s fingers trace invisible messages on his back when the coughing is over.

He feels fragile.

Strife tries to sleep elsewhere, tries to sleep on the opposite end of the bed, tries to sleep without bothering Parvis, but he only seems to dig his heels in. Parv goes from sleeping with an arm around him, to cradling him in his sleep, to lying on top of him, weighing him down.

It’s strange that something like this brings them closer to each other, stranger still that nowadays they speak very little to each other. Will says so much with his hands, and Parv’s learned to mimic it. He brings him coffee and places a comforting hand on his shoulder. But really Parvis is better with his mouth, pressing it in various ways to Strife’s skin. Kisses against his temple in the morning, gentle touches against his shoulders when he can’t breathe, mouth and nose together against his neck when he sleeps.

“I’m sorry,” Will says hoarsely, after the first time.

“Go to sleep.”

* * *

Will catches Parvis looking at him sometimes, looks that remind him of his occasional visits to Xephos for tea and updates. Thoughtful. Soft. Strife counts the months in his head while he’s looking back. Not enough. He gets back to work. Or tries to.

Parv interrupts him finally, hand settling over Will's as he tinkers with the machines in his tower. His gaze is purposefully on the gutted ME terminal when he speaks, barely a whisper. “What’s happening?”

There’s no mistaking his meaning. He doesn’t ask ‘What are you doing?’ or ‘How are you?’ as he has in the past and Will recognizes that. He sets his things down, buries his face in his hands, and tries to anchor himself to the ground with his feet, because he feels dizzy with grief. He counts the months again, slowly, and then looks up. It’s not until then that he realizes Parvis has left, is no longer at his side, but out in the overgrown garden.

Doing what? He doesn’t know, or pretends to not know, at least.

They meet again in bed, the anxiety somehow translating into fervor as Will staves off the coughing and Parvis takes the skin of Will’s neck between his teeth. They shed their shirts and Parvis’ pants before Strife whispers guiltily against Parv’s shoulder.

“Alex, I’m dying,” he sighs as they fall into bed.

“Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> For the bae.


End file.
